Swords of light cut through the night, probing the reeds, sweeping across the mud.
I closed my eyes.
The beams came closer.
I heard them talking—terse exchanges, the language of a coordinated search. They were good. They knew what they were doing.
The voices grew closer.
Thirty meters.
Twenty.
Ten.
Someone stopped directly above me.
I opened my eyes to find boots—heavy, military grade—planted in the frozen grass at the top of the bank. The man’s flashlight beam swept down, tracking across the mud where I lay.
It passed over my legs.
My torso.
My face.
I didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink.
The beam moved on.
“Nothing,” the man called. “Move upstream.”
The men turned.
Footsteps receded.
Voices faded.
I counted to sixty before I dared to breathe.
Counted to sixty twice more before I dared to move.
It materialized out of the darkness like something from a fever dream. Its stone arches spanned the water, while its streetlamps stood dead and dark.
The extraction point was on the far side.
A small parking area.
Bisch would be waiting.
If he was still waiting.
If he hadn’t been taken.
If this wasn’t a trap.
I approached from the riverbank, crouching low and scanning for movement.
The bridge looked empty.
